Sherlock Holmes and the Shattered Mirror - Chapter 1
by MrCriticalTeatime
Summary: A re-imagining of the Sherlock Holmes character in the modern age (not based on the BBC series). A story from a Holmes-fan to other Holmes-fans, no matter which one you are a fan of (be it the books, movies, or TV shows). You will find the characters of the classic canon, but in a way you may not have expected.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock Holmes and the Shattered Mirror**

 **Chapter I**

 **Alpha and Omega**

It was a rainy Tuesday, what other weather could one expect to find in London. With his briefcase held over his head Dr Hooper ran for cover against the heavenly assault. He barely made it into the hallway of the house. The old building from of the Victorian era had a gold plate at the front door which read:

 _Dr Charles Hooper_

 _Psychiatrist_

Dr Hooper shook off the rain like a wet dog and walked up the stairs; before he opened the door he took a deep breath. Every day he had his moment of silence before he went to work, this was necessary otherwise he would eventually go crazy like his patients one day. A barrier between his psyche and theirs. The air-lock of his inner mind if you will. With new-found strength he opened the door. He greeted the waiting patients with a well-trained fake smile. Then he picked up the files of the day from the front desk.

"Who we've got today?" he asked his secretary Stacy without sparing a 'Good morning' for her.

"The usual," she whispered.

"Well, after the one at 11 o'clock I will take a little break," he gently touched her shoulder. She just nodded slightly.

Now he turned to the waiting patients and called for a 'Mrs Hudson'. An elderly lady stood up and walked across the room to him, her steps were small and misguided.

"Right this way," he pointed down the hall.

As he opened the door to his room he noticed, that someone was already sitting in the chair.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" he asked.

"Close the door, would you?" the unknown person asked, he was definitely male, though and could he make out the trace of an accent there?

"Excuse me Mrs Hudson, would you please return to the waiting room, I'll just have to settle this."

Mrs Hudson seemed quite upset, but contained her anger and walked back stiffly. He closed the door gently behind himself and turned to the mysterious patient.

"Do you mind explaining this?" He wanted to ask, but then remembered that patients with social anxiety were usually asked to wait in a separate room. Given his small establishment this usually meant his room. Stacy was supposed to tell him about cases like this in advance, but she had always been the forgetful type. He calmed his nerves and settled down on his old leather chair. His office was so overloaded with psychology related items it almost seemed laughable. Books that looked like they were still wrapped in foil, the psycholigst-couch, a bust of Sigmund Freud, Rorschach pictures, three of them in total and a ton of drawing equipment.

"Well, since you are already here. My name is Dr Hooper if you should not know." He stood up and reached out to shake the man's hand. The man remained seated or rather slouched on his chair, but for a brief second he noticed a little twitch, as if the man was scared of the idea of touching him. He lifted his head so the doctor could see underneath the hood of his coat. The two of them crossed eyes for the first time. The man had a cold look and barely kept the eye contact with the Doctor. Thick black rings gave him a restless aura. The most surprising thing however was that the man did not smell at all. Given his look he should reek like a waste disposal site. Dirty clothing, worn out jeans, and he could also spot the messy greasy hair underneath his hood, hanging off to the sides. Noticing that he had been staring at him for far too long, Dr Hopper quickly replied:

"Your eyes, they are quite fascinating," he said.

"Heterochromia," the man said, the accent became more noticeable now. The man turned his head away.

"I know it's just very rare and then such a unique combination."

"I take it as a compliment." his voice was just as unimpressed as his posture.

"You certainly should." Dr Hooper was trying to light up his mood a bit.

"Bet it is a good conversation starter with the ladies, huh?"

"If you think this is my reason for this visit you are very much mistaken." the man had his gaze directed towards the floor, yet spoke as if he was looking at him directly.

"I'm sorry, old habit. Always trying to read something out of people, not a fine trait."

The man rested his hands on his lap.

"Well, if you have already started, please, tell me what else you can read."

Dr Hooper concentrated and looked at him, there was much to work with, but he knew these kinds of people, desperate for attention, they wanted to be told how special theywere.

First he needed to find out the reason for his visit. He needed something to start a conversation with him and soon found a suitable subject.

"What are those on your hands?"

"You mean these?" the man raised his hands and showed the back of them to the doctor.

The back of his hands were tattooed with Greek letters. On the left hand was Alpha and on the right Omega.

"Yes, tell me about them."

The man raised his head and for some reason looked towards the sink.

"No, I fear our time is up." he stood up.

He walked towards the sink and started washing his hands. Doctor Hooper sighed with disappointment, "another germaphobe. That makes the third this week." He thought. But he didn't want to let his guest catch on, so he stirred up as much fake interest as he could and asked: "Why are you washing your hands?"

"Oh, I am sure you'll appreciate the effort." The man didn't look up and continued to furiously scrub his hands.

It was then that the doctor noted his smashed mirror. A single blow to the centre had cracked the entire surface. As he got up to turn his patient around and ask him about this deed he was stopped by an oddly fascinating sight. As the man raised his head from the sink, his head aligned with the centre of the mirror, framing his head with a broken halo. Dr Hooper was fascinated by this sight a moment too long, with a swift move the man spun around and plunged something deep into his chest.

"What...what did you...?" Dr Hooper was starting to lose control over his body. The man caught him, flinched as he touched the fabric of his shirt and softly sat him back into his chair.

"Good doctor, monster born from books you hardly comprehend, always poking around in other people's heads. Let's see what you hide in yours." The doctor was drifting away, the voice of his last patient became distant and quiet as he lost consciousness and later his life.

It was 11 o'clock as Stacy returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The next moment she screamed as loud as Hooper would have screamed if he had been able to. The scene inside his room was nightmarish. Stacy blacked out just at the sight of it.

The man could hear the scream from underneath the window and smiled. Everything had worked out just as planned, the girl was punctual. He pulled his hood up and walked down the street. On is way he removed the left contact-lense from his eye and threw it into the river as the crossed a bridge.

"Such a unique combination," he parroted the doctor in a now clear London accent.

"They always go for the eyes, so predictable."

He stopped at a bakery to have something to drink. As he entered he pulled his hood back and his wet and messy hair fell into his face, he shook himself a bit, then bought a cup of tea and sat down near the window.

He could see the police cars driving down the street and couldn't help but giggle a little, which got him some weird looks from the other customers.

When he was almost done his cell phone rang. He sighed; he hated these shackles of the modern age. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled the phone out.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said.

"Yes, of course. I will be there shortly".

He hung up and finished his tea.

The rain only got worse as Sherlock Holmes walked down the street to meet his new client.

"The game is afoot." He whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Broken**

The modern age casts a dark shadow on the competence of the police, if social media spreads the news faster than they can even reach a crime scene. Sherlock could see from afar that the police had to fight their way through spectators all around the house. The unit headed by Inspector Laurence was tasked with any murder-case. "Gruesome butchery in psychiatrist office" followed by the address, little posts like these were all over the usual social media suspects. It might have been easy getting out, but now the problem was to get back in, Sherlock, after all, looked no different than any other sensation-starved journalist on the hunt for his break-through article. Flashes of digital cameras were firing off in rapid succession as if the building or address plate would reveal the vital information necessary. Sherlock slithered through the big mass of people, ever under the watchful eyes of London and its many lenses.

Today seemed to be Sherlock's lucky day, the poor fellow at the entrance was none other than a drenched Greg Lestrade, a rookie Sherlock had a 'special' relationship with. Of course, any sort of relationship Sherlock cared to keep was usually of the negative kind, but at least he would immediately recognize him.  
"Oh fuck me, did he actually call you in for this?" Lestrade threw the words at him from afar.  
"You might want to keep you voice down and while you're at it your mouth closed, Greg. Of course he did. Now, let me pass, would you." Sherlock said, trying not to draw much attention to himself, while carefully avoiding all the photo-shootings of Lestrade taking place around him. Lestrade's gaze remained fixed to Sherlock's unwavering expression of boredom. None of them dared to blink, they both knew what the other saw when they laid eyes on each other. Not letting him out of his sight, Lestrade lifted the plastic band and gestured Sherlock to pass underneath. Sherlock bowed his head, still not breaking the line of sight and finally disappeared up the staircase, away from Lestrade's piercing glances.

The doctor's office was now crawling with life as opposed to the graveyard of a waiting room that it usually was. People were opening file boxes, computers were searched and witnesses interrogated right next to one another. Sherlock had to dodge several eager policeman carrying files around, occasionally dropping them and some even sparing a muffled "Mr Holmes" with a nod of good will added. Sherlock stood in the middle of this lively commotion and took every aspect, every small detail into his vast and seemingly endless universe of memory. He was so deep in his own thought he didn't hear Lawrence call him the first time. After having returned to the world he walked up to him. Laurence knew better than to try and shake his hand so he just thanked him for his coming.

Jonathan Laurence was a young inspector who had climbed pretty high pretty fast, not through unethical means, however. He was simply a diligent and hardworking individual and lucky for him one of the few that were even recognized as such by their superiors. He was quite a lot taller than Sherlock, not that this would be an insurmountable task, as Sherlock himself ever hardly reached the top shelf in his kitchen. The clothes he wore were always kept in top condition, ironed shirts, even though he currently lived alone, as Sherlock deduced.

"So what is this butchery I was called here for?" Sherlock broke the niceties.  
"Butchery? Where did you hear that?" Laurence said noticeably irritated.  
"You mean apart from the babbling crowd outside? Twitter, look it up. #LondonButcher is trending right now. I really hate this part of the job, don't you? Public involvement with those ridiculous names and such."  
"Well that is what happens when 90% of the patients are youngsters in their 20s and don't understand the concept of a social media-lockdown." Laurence gave a faint smile. He and Sherlock were actually on pretty good terms, this being a huge exception from the norm.  
"Anyway, let's get to it, shall we." Laurence led Sherlock into the corridor that lead to Dr Hopper's room, but Sherlock stopped in the doorframe.  
"Pretty thick door for a simple examination room." He traced his fingers across the frame.  
"Keen eyes as always, Mr Holmes. Those are sound-proof doors the doctor had installed when he took over these rooms. Since this establishment is so small, he felt the need for privacy had to be guaranteed somehow. This was also probably why no one heard him as the killer was doing his work on him." Laurence gestured to move into the room now. More flashes were going off and the copper smell of blood filled the air. Sherlock immediately noticed the closed window he had leaped out not 20 minutes ago, but would obviously draw no attention to it.

The scene before him was nothing new to him, yet he did his best to look as intrigued as he always did. Slightly frantic glances around to give off the idea that he was actually taking in information, when he was actually more interested in finding out things they accidentally changed and he now had to work around. The body of doctor Hooper was turned on his back and lying on his desk. The head faced towards the entrance and was dangling over the edge. His eyes were wide open, but empty. Just as empty as the rest of this head. His skull had been cut open and his brain was positioned neatly at the foot of the desk right underneath his former owner. Sherlock kneeled right before his recent victim, doctor and patient united once more, careful not to step into the pool of blood that had formed underneath him. Sherlock wandered a few times around the room. Mumbling to himself, making gestures towards certain objects, everyone didn't interfere or say anything not until he was done. This was, to them, his usual behaviour. Of course Sherlock was only playing around, but he couldn't just draw conclusions out of nowhere, not that anyone here was an intellectual threat to him, but he preferred it not to be known as a psychic investigator.

When he had returned to the entrance, having finished his tour around the room, he turned towards Laurence and nodded slightly, he was ready to start:  
"A rather interesting one," Sherlock said without blushing, "brutal yet controlled. No blood beyond a one metre radius, no violent ripping or tearing, all very methodical." He pointed at the circle the pool of blood formed in the centre of the room. "The skull was opened with this medical saw," he vaguely gestured towards the vicious instrument lying on the floor near the sink. "Probably scraped clean, no fingerprints, but give it a try. The mirror was smashed, but I'll get to that later. The entire crime seems to serve a symbolic purpose, meaning I can't get far without patients files and so forth." Laurence tried to raise his voice, but was immediately cut off.  
"A few things spring to mind of course. He is disfigured or at least thinks he is. Now I am talking about the mirror, Steven." He said to an officer who was looking confused around the room, searching for the evidence Sherlock was apparently talking about. "Medical training of some sort to handle the buzz saw and not turning his brain to mincemeat. And of course physical strength to break his back."  
"Hold on," Laurence interrupted him "break his back?" He looked puzzled.  
"Yes, can't you see? He led him around to the side. The silhouette of the doctors was clearly arched upwards in the middle, creating an open space between his back and the desk and a sharp edge was forming on his chest.  
"Not sure of this was down post mortem." Sherlock pondered. "I'll wait for the autopsy."  
Laurence still looked baffled at the now more obvious weirdly formed body of the doctor.  
"Is that all?" Laurence asked, but he could clearly see that had been a redundant question.  
"With the murderer, yes. But the real interesting part is the doctor. Tell me, what kind of psychiatrist has sound proof doors?"  
"Well, I told you-" Laurence was cut off again as Sherlock didn't even consider his interjection.  
"The kind who keeps condoms in his desk drawer?" Sherlock drew out the last drawer with his foot and for one moment wondered whether he had opened it before and was now making himself a suspect, but then remembered that he had indeed checked them all during his performance.  
"The kind who has books that are only for show?" Sherlock tipped over one book by Freud and five of them fell out, glued together and only the front-half of them being actual books. All of his books, his vast library was no more than Ikea decoration.  
"The kind who has only ever seen a psychiatrist's office in movies and therefore thinks it has to look so phony? You are dealing with a fake Mr Laurence and I have only gotten started unmasking him."


End file.
